


All that we see or seem

by blackkat



Category: Doctor Who, Torchwood
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, M/M, Romance, Time Lord!Ianto
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Stop,” the Rani cuts him off. “Ianto is my child, Doctor. You can check the Matrix if you're doubtful.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. All that we see or seem (is but a dream within a dream)

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write a Time Lord!Ianto story for a long time—since about twelve seconds after I discovered them, really—but never managed to actually do it. Then there was a prompt from Meridas, who is amazing, awesome, and wonderful. The title is from Edgar Allan Poe’s poem A Dream Within a Dream.

Sometimes, Ianto dreams of a world with an orange sky and grey clouds, of trees with silver leaves reaching towards two suns. There is a sense of wonder to those dreams, a sense of whimsy and longing and aching melancholy, but they're still happy dreams for the most part, and peaceful.

He doesn't have them often, only when he’s especially tired or heartsick. At such times they're a balm for his frayed nerves, his battered heart, because the rust and orange-brown of that strange place enfolds him like a mother’s arms, like a lover’s touch. _I'm here_ , the planet whispers, _even if I'm only in your dreams_.

In the morning, when the dreams fade away, Ianto always awakens with tears on his cheeks and an ache in his soul that nothing can fill. Not Lisa, not his work at Torchwood One (where he’s spent _years_ looking over every inch of the Archives for some mention of a vast orange planet with two moons and two suns), and after a while Ianto stops trying to console himself with either.

It’s clear that there's a hole in him that nothing else can fill.

*.~.*.~.*

Other times, the dreams are a little different, and Ianto will see a stern-faced woman with long brown hair, dressed all in red. She perches on a high stool, bent over a microscope as her fingers fly, taking notes. Still, she glances up at him every so often, and smiles.

“A moment, my sweet,” she says, and her voice is sweet and smooth to his child’s mind, like honey. “Just another moment. This organism’s reaction is fascinating, especially given its place of origin. Give me a minute, child?”

But Ianto is all right with this, because it happens often, and he knows that she is brilliant in a way few are, so he nods and smiles back at her. “Yes, Mother,” he answers, and—

And that makes no sense, does it? Because his mother was from Cardiff and so was his father, before they both died, and certainly neither of them was ever a scientist, or particularly brilliant. He even has a sister, even if he hasn't so much as spoken to her in years, not since she found out he liked both sexes equally and was unspeakably awkward about it.

(Of course, they were always a bit awkward together anyway, even before that—she’d often accused him of being “not right” when they were children, and Ianto, who has always been able to feel the rotation of the Earth beneath his feet, its axis around the sun, the galaxy’s movements in vast cosmic dance—well. Ianto had never argued the point.)

But the dreams come anyway, no matter the logic of them, and he sees himself and the woman and a ship with countless rooms moving through time.

Sometimes, he sees a dark man with different faces—who is always the same person underneath, regardless—who comes into their ship. The woman always sends Ianto to hide, when that happens, and won't let him come out, even when the man leaves her pale and shaking and furious.

Ianto barely waits until the man is gone before he runs to her, wraps his short arms around her waist, and holds on tight. The woman always hugs him back, one of the few times she clings as tightly to him as he always does to her. She presses her face into his hair and says fiercely, “Never be evil, child; it’s pure stupidity. Only an idiot would be wholly evil.”

Those are perhaps the only times she uses the word “evil,” and Ianto has to go an look up what it means in a book. He does, because his mother is brilliant and he never, ever wants to be stupid, no matter what.

“Evil” is confusing, but perhaps not so much as “good.” He asks her about it, sometimes, when he dreams, and she pulls him onto her lap and sighs into his dark hair.

“Oh, child,” she says to him. “Someday you'll meet a man who is very, very good, and he’ll be able to explain it much better than I. Can you wait until then, sweet?”

He can, because he’s willing to do anything when she sounds like that, when she has that look in her eyes, so he smiles and nods and then leads her away by the hand to show her his little chemistry set and the experiments he’s been doing.

*.~.*.~.*

But these are just dreams, of course.

They're not real, no matter what Ianto’s subconscious believes.

*.~.*.~.*

One time, he dreams of the door of the ship swinging open, and his mother limping in with her arm braced over the shoulder of a different man. He has curly hair and a rainbow coat, an equally bright umbrella tucked under one arm. Ianto’s mother looks battered but still beautiful, with blood running down the side of her fierce, strong face and her clothes torn.

She has not told him it’s all right to let this man see him, but she also hasn't told him it’s _not_ all right, so Ianto abandons his book and runs to her, throwing himself against her good leg. He wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her tunic, because while he’s seen her hurt before, he’s never seen her _this_ hurt.

“Mother,” he says shakily, and the bright man goes still.

His mother shoots a sharp look at her companion, even as she sinks gracefully to her knees and wraps her arms around Ianto. “Hush, my boy,” she tells him gently. “I'll be fine. You shouldn't worry.”

“Rani—” the bright man begins.

“Stop,” Ianto’s mother cuts him off. “He’s my child, Doctor. You can check the Matrix if you're doubtful.” She tugs Ianto back a step and smiles at him, heedless of the way it looks with half of the expression covered in deep red blood. “Do you remember our conversation about good and evil, sweet? This is the man who can answer your questions.” Fluidly, she stands and turns them both to face the bright man. “Doctor, this is my son. You may call him Ianto, as he prefers.” A hesitation, and then she adds softly, “If you would watch him as I change, it would be most convenient.”

She does not say _I would be grateful_ , but it hangs in the air regardless.

The Doctor stares down at Ianto for a long beat before he looks back up at the Rani and nods, clapping his hands together cheerily. “All right. Come, Ianto, will you show me what you're reading?”

But his tone is the condescending one that all adults use, that Ianto hates above all, and he glares. His mother chuckles as she walks away, leaving them alone.

“I might be a _child_ ,” Ianto tells the Doctor sharply, “but I'm not simple, and I'm not _stupid._ Why does Mother think you can tell me about good and evil?”

With a roll of his eyes, the Doctor sinks down on one of the Rani’s stools and looks at Ianto closely. “All right,” he repeats. “Well…perhaps it’s easier to start with evil. Do you know what evil is, Ianto?”

“Stupid,” Ianto answers promptly, because this is what his mother has told him, and she’s brilliant. Of course she knows the correct answer.

The Doctor snorts out a laugh, but nods. “Yes,” he agrees. “I suppose that’s one thing it is, especially to the Rani. But evil is also doing bad things, even when you know they're bad, and not caring that you're hurting others. Like taking a life, even when you have the choice not to.”

Ianto mulls that over for a few moments, assessing, and then carefully files it away for future contemplation. “And good?” he asks.

There is a look in the Doctor’s eyes that Ianto has never seen before, something weary and tired but also incredibly strong, a fire and a light in a dark place and a star at the peak of its life.

“Good,” he says, “is always doing the right thing, no matter how hard it is or what the cost.”

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto hears the whisper of those words as he stands over Lisa’s half-converted body, wavering.

 _No matter how hard it is or what the cost_ , the bright man whispers in his memory (in his dreams? It’s hard to tell anymore), and Ianto wants to cry.

_Evil is also doing bad things, even when you know they're bad, and not caring that you're hurting others._

But love is always good, isn’t it?

Love is goodness.

This can't be wrong.

(Ianto closes his eyes as he bends down to free Lisa. He knows. He knows it’s wrong but he’ll do it anyway.)

( _I'm sorry_ , he wants to say to the bright man, to his dream-mother, but he doesn't.)

*.~.*.~.*

He has dreams where he’s older, too, not just a child but a young man. His dream-mother stands beside him, looking out into the brilliant nothingness of space, and he’s nearly as tall as she. There is a planet before them, a dusky orange-brown with grey clouds scattered across the surface and two moons circling it.

“Home,” she murmurs, but there's anger in the lines of her face.

Ianto touches her shoulder. “I won't go if you don't want me to,” he offers, because it’s painful for her to be here, when she was banished so unfairly. “Let them keep their credentials. I've never attended the Academy, and I don't need to pass their tests.”

The Rani scuffs a hand through his hair, a mother’s aggravatingly fond gesture. “No,” she counters, “you'll go down there and show them just how brilliant you are, my boy. Let them see what they missed when they wouldn't let you attend. You're ready for a TARDIS of your own, and I won't let them steal that from you.”

They share a smile in the reflective surface of the window, even as the Rani’s TARDIS drops towards Gallifrey.

*.~.*.~.*

And then there are the dreams—nightmares, almost—where his mother comes to him with terrified fury in her eyes, and presses the key to her ship into his hand.

“Hide her,” she says, ghosting a kiss over his forehead. “Hide yourself as well. There is a war out there, sweet boy, and evil.”

“Evil is stupidity,” Ianto says automatically, shutting his book and rising to his feet, because it isn’t like her to be worried over _anything_. She’s conquered planets, escaped the Tetraps, survived the Doctor and his whirlwind adventures. “Mother?”

She smiles at Ianto, warm in the way she has only ever been to him. “Evil has numbers, though, my dearest,” she murmurs, and kisses his cheek. Then she’s gone in a whirl of comfortingly familiar chemical scent, with the words, “Use the Chameleon Arch, and don't look for me,” fading behind her as she leaves Ianto’s TARDIS.

Ianto has always obeyed his mother unless he has a very good reason not to. This time, though, he has no reason, because his mother is brilliant and she wants him to hide, and hide her TARDIS.

She would never ask for such a thing without due cause.

Ianto hides both TARDISes where they will not be found, sets up the Chameleon Arch in his own, and slides the fob watch into place. Then, with a breath, he pulls the headset down.

It hurts.

It hurts so much.

*.~.*.~.*

Ianto Jones dreams of being someone else. He knows everything. And he is in the habit of always carrying a fob watch with him, even though he cannot remember where he gained either the habit or the watch itself.

Looking at Captain Jack Harkness is uncomfortable at first, though Ianto puts it down to guilt. He adjusts eventually, because he grows to love Jack, and love is strong enough to shut out strange instincts that he only half-recalls.

There is a part of him, in his dreams and in the space between waking and sleeping, which mourns a woman called the Rani as his mother, and knows that he has no family on Earth. A part of him that looks for a green door standing alone, or a grey-and-red pyramid rematerializing with a humming, grinding sound. But it is a small part, easily ignored while he’s awake.

Then Jack leaves, disappears between one moment and the next, and over the security footage Ianto can hear the sound from his dreams.

The fob watch is heavy in his hand. He flips it over, studies the etchings on the back.

He’s never opened it before. That now seems like a fairly grievous error.

It unlocks with barely a finger’s touch, and the world turns to deep dark gold.


	2. You are not wrong who deem (that my days have been a dream)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that I've taken some liberties regarding the knowledge [or lack thereof] that fandom has regarding TARDISes. I know that the Doctor’s is a Type 40 TT Capsule, but the Mark number is mentioned as both III and I in canon. I went with the more recent reference. However, we do know that 40s are “obsolete” and 103s are “nearly human,” so I went with something in between, Type 99, for Ianto, which is never mentioned in the show, but probably exists. /end geek-out babbling

Ianto knows his mother is not a good person.

She’s not even _good_ , in any connotation of the word. But she had loved him, loved him so much that it hurts now to think of it, because he is here and she is gone, and now he has to adjust to life without that fierce, boundless love.

His mother is never _evil_ , though, either—amoral, really, uncaring, because she always holds her experiments and her work higher than morality or laws. Ianto doesn't hold her at fault, because she’s a genius, even by Time Lord standards. Her genius doesn't mesh with the rest of the world, and she can't understand the problem with pursuing her biochemistry to the exclusion of ethics.

He supposes that, by the Doctor’s definition, she is evil.

But the world is not so simple, not so straightforward, especially in the eyes of her son.

*.~.*.~.*

Everyone knows that the Rani is a genius, is brilliant at her work. Everyone on Gallifrey has heard the story of her lab mice growing huge and eating the President’s cat, and her subsequent banishment.

Only the Doctor and the Matrix know she has a son.

Ianto has never asked her who his father is, or was. He doesn't know if the Time Lord is dead, or aware of Ianto’s existence, though for the second question all deductions point to “no.” His mother has never mentioned anything about this strange, unknown man, and Ianto has never particularly wanted to know.

He has his mother, and she has him, and the Doctor hovers on the fringes of their tight-knit unit like the insane uncle no one talks about, and it’s a _good_ family. Ianto wouldn't change it for anything, and he most certainly would never change his mother.

That's not to say he always agrees with what she does, or participates in it, especially when he gets older. Ianto makes his feelings clear on that point—the Doctor has had a touch too much influence on his life to put him at ease treating whole worlds as the Rani so casually does. Still, she is his mother, and he’ll never love her any less. She understands, too, that he’s not the same as her. They are both smart, both _brilliant_ , but Ianto’s genius lies in his memory, his ability to connect events and draw conclusions, recall the most complex information as simply as breathing.

“The Archivist” is his name when he graduates from the Academy, because he has Gallifrey’s entire library in his head. The Rani smiles as he walks towards her in his robes, newly made a Time Lord, and she looks so proud that those around her stiffen and turn, looking for some type of experiment.

But there's none. Just Ianto.

*.~.*.~.*

It hurts, coming back to himself—to his true self. Like a barefoot waltz over broken glass, time slices across his nerve endings, stabs deep into his epidermis and _stays_.

As a human Ianto had always had a good grasp of time, but it was never anything like _this_.

Then again, being a human could never be anything like being a Time Lord, and to compare the two is foolhardiness. _Different operating systems, different purposes_ , Ianto thinks, half-dazed by the fact that he can feel the _universe_ again, can feel all of it, every centimeter and every atom, all moving and twisting and _there_.

“Mother,” he whispers, because as a Time Lord his first though has ever been and will ever be for the odd, brilliant woman who birthed and raised him. “Mother, don't be dead. I'm waiting for you.”

The sound of a gun cocking pulls him back to the moment, and Ianto looks up from where he has fallen to his knees. Tosh, Owen, and Gwen all have their weapons out and pointed at him, though Tosh seems fairly halfhearted about it. Owen’s eyes are narrowed, while Gwen’s are wide, but the doctor also hasn't started shooting yet, which is a good sign.

“You're a prat,” Ianto tells him with a roll of his eyes. “Last week you filed a half-finished report on a blowfish under Z in the hope that I wouldn't find it. You take your coffee black with three sugars, and you ate all of Gwen’s biscuits yesterday.”

Gwen splutters and turns accusing eyes on Owen. “That was you? You told me it was Jack!”

Owen sighs and lowers his gun. “It’s still Ianto,” he admits, albeit grudgingly. “Can I shoot him anyway?”

Holstering her weapon, Tosh steps forward and helps pull Ianto to his feet. “What was that?” she asks curiously. “The light, and speaking to your mother? I thought she was dead, and used to live in Newport.”

“Chameleon Arch,” Ianto explains, accepting the help. His knees still feel suspiciously weak. “A Time Lord technology that modifies the biology of one species, so the cells register as another species. Our memories and Time Lord nature are trapped in a fob watch kept under a portable perception filter.” He hesitates for a moment, and then says softly, “My mother’s not from Newport, but…she could be dead. I'm not sure anymore.”

“ _Time Lord_?” Owen splutters, spinning back towards them. Ianto sees his hand twitch towards his gun again. “You're a bleeding _Time Lord_ and none of us ever _noticed_?”

With another roll of his eyes, Ianto waves the now-empty fob watch in the doctor’s face. “What part of ‘modifies biology so that cells register as a different species’ don't you comprehend?” he snipes. “And _I_ didn't know, either—not until I heard the Doctor’s TARDIS taking Jack away.”

Those words get their attention, and Gwen perks up. “You know where Jack went?”

“ _When_ ,” Ianto corrects. “A TARDIS can go to any time and place, as long as the pilot is good enough.” He sniffs a bit. “ _And_ the Doctor has an old Type 40, Mark 3—practically obsolete. It leaves a clear trail if you have the right equipment to detect it.”

“You can…follow it?” There’s hope in Tosh's voice, and a look of wide-eyed faith on her face. “We can go and get him back?”

Ianto thinks about protesting, thinks about pointing out that Jack left—happily and with much enthusiasm, if the tape is anything to go by—on his own, but…

But.

But Jack is still Jack, and Ianto is still Ianto, and the memory of that slow, sweet, victorious kiss from just hours ago is in the forefront of his mind. He had been uncertain, hesitant, because he knew Jack had kissed the real Captain Harkness when he was in that other time, couldn't quite comprehend what it was that Jack thought they had.

That kiss had answered all of his questions, settled the vast majority of his doubts. He means _something_ to Jack, and that's all that matters.

Now Jack is out there somewhere, in some time, with a TARDIS that no doubt cannot handle what he is, and a Time Lord who hasn't managed to alter his perception of Jack yet. Ianto has, through sheer determination, so it stands to reason that he should at least make sure the Doctor’s TARDIS doesn't do something foolish, like flee into a supernova. And besides, Jack is always one to find trouble, no matter where he goes. With the Doctor nearby, it’s doubly likely he’ll get embroiled in something significant.

“Yes,” he finally says. “Yes, we can follow him. Who’s coming?”

Gwen, Tosh, and Owen trade glances that speak a thousand words within the confines of an instant.

“Right,” Tosh says decisively. “I’ll set the Hub on lockdown and the Rift monitor on automatic. Give me three minutes.”

“I’ll get weapons,” Gwen agrees.

“Medical kit,” Owen chimes in, already halfway to the autopsy bay. “Oi, tea boy, how are we doing this? You got a spaceship hidden away somewhere?”

Ianto wants to laugh. He wants, just a little bit, to cry. In the instant between coming back to himself and his explanation, he’d expected recriminations, fear, doubt, and anger. Not this easy acceptance, and certainly not _this_.

 _Family_ , he thinks, smiling to himself. _Mother, I have a new family. Aren’t they grand?_

“A spaceship?” he echoes. “No, Owen, I've got something much better. A _TARDIS_.”

*.~.*.~.*

The room where he once kept Lisa and her conversion unit has long since been scrubbed clean of physical evidence, if not memories. Ianto leads the team into the room and shuts the heavy steel door behind them, locking it.

“All right, my dear,” he announces to the room at large. “You can come out now. I'm sorry it took me so long to remember.”

A shimmer along the far wall draws all eyes, and as it fades away the blank grey stone becomes a dark green door with a silver knob, with a silver nameplate in the center that bears the words “The Archivist.”

Something settles in Ianto’s chest, in his mind, and warmth fills him. He breathes out a soft sigh of relief and puts his hand on the door.

“Beauty,” he murmurs, leaning forward to rest his forehead against the door. “My beauty, I've missed you so much.”

Here is the piece of himself that he could not find anywhere else, the piece that always longed for orange plains and silver trees and grey clouds, flutterwings and rovies and blood-red grass. Here is where his mind and heart and soul all sing _home_ in their very loudest voices, and his TARDIS sings back, high and clear and so lovely as to bring tears to his eyes.

He touches the doorknob, which grows warm under his fingers, turns it counterclockwise, and pulls the door open with a whisper of well-oiled hinges and escaping fragrant air. The light inside is golden, the control room all bright, polished wood and the smell of fresh-ground coffee and spun sugar, not cloying, just enough to tease. Ianto steps in, and no matter how much he loves the Hub and Cardiff and his life there, this is what feels like coming home.

The others file in behind him, quiet in their awe, and Ianto turns to grin at them. The expression stretches his face in ways he’s still readjusting to, because it is the expression of Ianto the Time Lord, son of the Rani, not Ianto Jones, administrator and general support agent of Torchwood Three, Cardiff.

“Welcome to the TARDIS,” he says, spreading his hands. “Isn’t she gorgeous?”

For once, not even Owen has something scathing to say. The TARDIS sings to all of them, and no one can argue with that statement in the least.

*.~.*.~.*

“Right,” Ianto says, once Gwen and Owen are settled in the big, squishy armchairs off to the side, and have been given strict orders to hold on tightly. “Tosh, you'll help me fly her.” He steers the tech to the control panel, positioning her in front of a dizzying array of buttons and levers. “There are normally six pilots in a Type 99, and while I can do it myself, following the Doctor’s TARDIS at the same time will make it a bit complicated.”

Tosh's eyes are huge and her expression is eager as she strokes a careful hand over the glowing golden wood. “She’ll let me?” she asks cautiously. “The TARDIS won't mind?”

“Not at all,” Ianto reassures her. “You can hear her, can't you? In your head? I’ll input the coordinates as I find them, and all you have to do is listen to what she tells you. She’ll help you fly her.”

The TARDIS hums in agreement, and Tosh smiles, brilliant and amazed. “All this technology,” she murmurs, running her fingertip around an instrument panel. “I've never seen anything this intricate before. Ianto, this is—”

“I know,” he murmurs, smiling at her. “I know, Tosh. After this, if everything goes well, I’ll have to do maintenance, and you can help with that, too. I'm sure she wouldn't mind, right, my beauty?” He pauses in booting up the tracking program, pats the console, and feels her chime softly in his head, an eager agreement. His TARDIS has always been a vain thing, loving admiration, and she preens under the collective awe of Ianto, Tosh, Owen, and Gwen.

The system pings, the first set of coordinates flashing on the screen, and Ianto’s fingers fly as he punches them in, already calling up the next set. The Doctor’s TARDIS is leaping from one point to another, doubtless trying to shake Jack off, hopping across time and space as fast as it can go.

“Hang on,” Ianto calls. “This will get a bit bumpy!”

Then he pulls down a lever, hits a button, and turns a switch, and the TARDIS shudders out of 21st century Cardiff, hurtling forward after Jack with Ianto and Tosh clinging to the controls.


	3. I hold within my hands (grains of the golden sand)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline-y stuff: Ianto went into hiding a short while before the Rani was captured in the Second War in Heaven, meaning that neither she nor Ianto fought in the Last Great Time War, and don't even know about it.

Five years old, nine, twenty-four, sixty, seventy-three, and Ianto is still a child clinging to his mother, still unsure and uncertain in a universe where they are alternately loathed and worshiped, Time Lords and Ladies in bright array slipping through the time stream and shifting things to their will.

“Non-interference” they call it, but no one listens to the rules, and especially not those in charge.

The Rani lets her lab mice grow and grow, and there's no rule against them eating a cat, but she’s banished anyway.

 _Rules_ , Ianto thinks, and he is five years old, nine, twenty-four, ninety. _Rules are not for me._

The Rani smiles at him, his mother, so beautiful and proud and strong even when half her face is dark with blood. She’s never followed the rules, and all Ianto has ever wanted is to be just a little like her.

They're not on Gallifrey when the Second War in Heaven starts, because the Council’s rule is that all Time Lords have to fight for them, and neither of them have ever been any good at following rules.

It is years before and after and around the time Ianto learns why people speak of good and evil so insistently, even his mother—he has always seen in shades instead of stark-sharp colors, but he thought that the world was just that way.

*.~.*.~.*

Three years old, eight, nineteen, forty-three, seventy, and his mother is a whirlwind, genius and brilliance all knotted up and clothed in red—red like the blood on her face, red like passion, red like the lipstick she wears whenever the dark man comes to see her. Ianto adores her, but never blindly, because she has never, ever allowed him to be blind to anything, always pushing knowledge and thoughts upon him, even when they aren’t her own.

“Go,” she tells him at the gates to the Academy, “Go and show them who you are.”

But Ianto has always been a part of her, an extension, for all that she has taught him to be his own person. He is a newcomer in a place where everyone knows everyone else, the son of an exile even if no one knows that exile’s name, only allowed on Gallifrey by the petitions of the Rani’s family and the Doctor’s, who hate to see brilliance go to waste.

He is smart enough to know where he is not welcome, but too brave or stupid to let such feelings stop him. He graduates first in his class, earns a Type 99 TT Capsule, and leaves Gallifrey behind without looking back.

 _Bad blood shows through_ , they say in whispers, but never to his face. _An exile’s son can never be one of us._

 _No_ , Ianto agrees, silently, _and I would not want to._

*.~.*.~.*

His TARDIS leaps through time in stops and starts and sideways lunges, barely coming to a full halt before Ianto has the next coordinates entered and Tosh is sending them off again. Ianto wants to laugh, because he’s missed this, because this is _him_ in a way nothing has been in so very, very long. The TARDIS hums under his fingers, eager as she runs, and her song is loud in his head.

 _Go,_ he urges her silently, his mind in hers and hers in his. _Go, go, go_.

They fall and are caught and hurtle forward, drop off edges of time and whirl back up, bounce through locations and across ages, and Ianto thinks that he can hear Gwen laughing shrilly behind him, Owen swearing, like it's some kind of carnival ride with safety belts and sudden death if they malfunction.

“Go,” he whispers out loud, just once, and she makes one last leap and then shudders to a stop.

There are no more coordinates blinking beneath his fingers.

The trail ends here.

With a breath of relief, Ianto peels himself away from the console, giving it one last approving pat. Across from him, Tosh looks breathless, but she’s grinning like it's Christmas morning, bright and wild and giddy. Ianto grins back at her, because he can understand loving _this_ adrenaline rush, can agree that this danger is the best feeling in the world, and offers, “That was splendid, Tosh. She likes you.”

The grin becomes a beam, elated and happy, and she strokes the console’s wood with a steady hand.

“It’s mutual,” she says, winded, and the TARDIS purrs beneath their feet.

“That,” Owen breaks in, sounding slightly shell-shocked, “was ‘a bit bumpy’?”

Ianto arches an eyebrow at him as he helps Gwen from her seat, the two of them clinging just a little as they get their balance back. “Oh, yes,” he answers. “Wait until you try ‘very rough.’”

“Pass,” Gwen mumbles, her hair falling over her face, even though she’s smiling. “So where—or when—are we now?”

Ianto checks their current coordinates. Blinks. Checks them again.

“Impossible,” he whispers. “Even if the Doctor’s TARDIS was trying to get away from Jack, why would she come _here_?”

The end of the universe is not a place Ianto has ever gone, or ever particularly wanted to go. Even the Rani had avoided it, when he was a child and they traveled together. She’d never explicitly warned him away from it, but it’s a Time Lord’s instinct to go where there is life, not death, to seek the beginning rather than the final end of all.

The old Type 40 must be incredibly unable to withstand Jack’s presence, if it fled all the way here.

“Welcome,” Ianto says softly, as they all suddenly strain to hear him, “to Malcassairo in the year 100 trillion CE. The end of the universe.”

But they're Torchwood, and they deal with the end of the world on a weekly basis; the end of the universe isn’t that much worse, in their heads. They tumble out into the darkness, armed to the teeth and wary of everything, and stand for a moment looking at the devastation.

“No stars,” Tosh murmurs, clutching her scanner a little more tightly.

“They must all be dead,” Gwen agrees, and she sounds like she’s mourning them already.

Owen stares around them, then shoulders his medical kit and unstraps his gun. “Let’s get moving,” he says sharply. “That bastard Harkness already has a head start on us, and we’re just wasting time. Tea boy, can you track the other Time Lord? Species radar or something?”

Ianto supposes that even at the end of everything, Owen will still be Owen, and has to refrain from rolling his eyes yet again. “No,” he says dryly, “but Tosh has a thermal imager, and Time Lords run a few degrees cooler than a human, even with two hearts. If we scan for that, the Doctor should be easy to find. Jack is most likely with him.”

Tosh already has her scanner calibrated by the time he finishes speaking, but instead of relief upon finding the Doctor’s heat signature, her forehead creases in worry. “Ianto, do you know anything about this place?” she asks, and there's a tint of worry to her voice.

It’s probably not a good sign, and Ianto reluctantly shakes his head. “No Time Lord has ever come this far before, so I've no clue at all,” he admits. “What’s wrong?”

“Lots of heat signatures,” Tosh says grimly, “and they're a bit too hot to be human. Coming this way at a fast clip.”

Gwen seizes her own pack, slinging it over one shoulder. “Can you find the Doctor?” she asks. “Point us in that direction and let’s go. I don't think we’re equipped to meet the natives.”

Agreement all around, and they set off at a near run, following Tosh's quiet directions. Ianto sighs softly to himself, because this is turning out to be a typical Tuesday, and he should really give up on wearing his good suit on Tuesdays. It’s just asking for trouble.

*.~.*.~.*

Silo 16, the largest cluster of human heat signature—and the Doctor’s—is easy enough to find, once they're headed in the right direction, and the guards let them in once they show their teeth. They had to run flat-out for the last mile or so, and they're all winded. Thankfully, the soldiers are sympathetic.

“You’re lucky to have made it in time,” one tells Ianto, who leans against the gate as he tries to regain his breath. “The ship to Utopia is almost ready—Professor Yana and a scientist who arrived earlier just finished working on a few last-minute things right now. Everyone’s boarding.”

“We have to find Jack,” Ianto murmurs to Tosh, too quiet for the guards to hear. “I've got a bad feeling. Something’s wrong here.”

“More than the end of the universe?” Owen snipes, rising to his feet, but he takes the scanner from Tosh and waves them all forward. “Come on, then, stop wasting time.”

Ianto casts a look around them as the soldiers secure the gates, closing them forever. There's an itch under his skin, a twinge of near-pain that he’s felt before, and it’s unnerving. His memory is good enough that he’s never had to scramble to recall something before, but this—this remains just out of reach, no matter how he grasps.

It’s something dark. Something heavy.

Almost…

Like drums.

But there's no one in the Silo, all of them having apparently boarded the ship, and the sensor is almost useless this close to the heat of the engines.

The feeling is getting stronger, and Ianto has to fight the urge to close his eyes and give in to it as the four of them sweep the halls.

 _Jack_ , he thinks desperately, as alarms begin to blare. _Jack, where are you? We need you._

“There!” Tosh calls, pointing ahead, where a room is bathed in a reddish glow. They burst through the doors, Owen in the lead, and—

Ianto sees it almost from the corner of his eye as the drumbeat grows deafening. An old man with a fob watch stands in the clamor of the launching ship, and Ianto knows in an instant who he is, _what_ he is.

He’s seen this man before, had hidden from him when he visited the Rani and left her infuriated, disgusted, and afraid.

It had been so long ago, perhaps the last time he had ever visited, but Ianto had watched him through a crack in the door, and he never forgets a face.

He lunges forward, as fast as he can, faster than he’s moved since there was a cannibal about to eat Tosh in front of him, and swipes it from the man’s hand. It clatters away, slides into the darkness somewhere and is lost.

The man cries out as though mortally wounded and rounds on Ianto, mindless fury on his face. Ianto falls back, because this man is human now and nothing more, and Ianto isn’t going to kill him. But, clearly without the same scruples, the man’s hand falls on a high-voltage cable and he yanks it out with surprising strength, advancing on Ianto.

There is only a moment to feel fear.

From the doorway they just entered through, there is a cry, and then a gun barks, loud in the enclosed space.

Ianto would know the sound of Jack's Webley anywhere, in any time.

Blood blossoms on the old man’s vest, brilliant in the dull-sharp light, and a look of shock crosses his lined face. He staggers one step forward, the cable falling from his fingertips, and Ianto can only stare as the man who had terrified his mother for so long crumples to the ground in a lifeless heap.

The alien woman in the corner cries out, but doesn't move.

“Ianto!” Jack is suddenly there, sweeping Ianto into a tight hug. “Ianto, what are you doing here? How did you _get_ here? This is—”

“The end of the universe,” Ianto cuts him off, shaking his head to banish the fog of adrenaline and horror that still clings to him. “I know, Jack. We came to bring you home.”

“Bloody Harkness,” Owen mutters, stomping over to yank Ianto’s hand from its place on Jack's shoulder and take his pulse. “And bloody tea boys, jumping into things they bloody well shouldn't! You idiot, what if he’d gotten you with that damned thing? And what the hell is a normal pulse for your kind?”

There’s a choking noise, slightly shrill, and Ianto glances away from the irate doctor to the other Doctor, who’s gone very pale, his eyes very wide. “ _Ianto?_ ” he demands, nearly squeaking with surprise. “What—how—where’s your mother? Shouldn't you still be with her?”

Ianto rolls his eyes. “Doctor, I'm almost a hundred years old,” he reminds the man. “Mother and I have been traveling separately for years now, and I haven’t seen her since the Second War in Heaven.”

Jack loosens his hold enough to pull back and peer at Ianto in confusion. “A hundred?” he demands. “You know the Doctor? Ianto—”

“He’s a Time Lord, apparently,” Owen cuts in, his tone acerbic as he tugs Ianto away to check his pupils. “Bloody aliens hiding away in fob watches. Can't a Tuesday ever be normal?” Seemingly satisfied, he stows the penlight back in his bag and steps away to stand near Tosh and Gwen and the Doctor’s pretty Companion.

Jack is absolutely silent, absolutely still.

The Doctor glances between them, then tucks his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “Weeeeel,” he says, drawing out the word, “this is just a tad bit awkward, isn’t it? Ianto, want to tell me who that was in that other fob watch?”

For a long moment, Ianto stares at Jack, who stares back without speaking. Then, reluctantly, he turns his gaze to the Doctor, and answers, “The Master. He came to visit Mother like that, once. And I’d only just recovered myself, so I could hear him in the watch, trying to get out again. There were drums.”

With a deep sigh, the Doctor nods, looking down at the old man’s body. “Poor Professor Yana,” he murmurs sadly, “and poor Master, for all that he wasn't what a Time Lord should be. Didn't deserve this, did you, old boy?”

Ianto says nothing, because he remembers the fear on the Rani’s face when the dark man would visit, and he can't help but think that the Master got exactly what he deserved.

There are gentle hands on his face, then, turning him back, and he looks into Jack's questioning eyes. “Time Lord?” the Captain asks softly.

Ianto nods, resting his hands over Jack's just to feel the warmth of them. “My mother went to school with the Doctor and the Master,” he explains. “She was exiled from Gallifrey, though, and had me a short while later. I've never lived anywhere but her TARDIS, and then my own, before I hid myself on Earth because of a war.”

“The Last Time War?” Jack asks, frowning faintly. “But I thought they called all Time Lords back to fight for them.”

A dark chill trickles through Ianto’s chest, and he blinks slowly, trying to process the words. “Last?” he whispers, even as dread settles like cement in his gut. “Jack, what are you talking about? What war?”

Over Jack's shoulder, the Doctor looks at him with eyes that are so dark and sad, so very regretful, and Ianto finds he cannot breathe.


	4. Take this kiss upon the brow (and, in parting from you now)

This time, when Ianto dreams of Gallifrey, it is different. He stands in the middle of a field of wilted red grass with skeletal silver trees in the distance, and the grey clouds are thick across the sky, low and heavy. Rain is falling like tears, even though it has not rained on Gallifrey in a Time Lord’s memory, the clouds splitting open and falling to earth the only way they know how.

There is no one else. There are no animals in the grass, no birds in the sky, no laughter from the distant hills. Ianto stands alone upon a dying world, a world in mourning.

Here, now, in his dreams, is the last of the Nine Gallifreys.

The remaining Time Lords are so few in number that Ianto can count them all upon one hand and have the majority of his fingers to spare, even if he is wrong in his assumptions and his mother still lives.

The Master is dead, and now only the Doctor and the Archivist remain.

Ianto raises his head, stares up towards the slowly crumbling sky, and grieves.

*.~.*.~.*

Twenty-nine, fifty-seven, eighty, and Ianto is on his own, a Time Lord in his own right, trained by the Rani and an exile of Gallifrey in all but law. He does not go back, even though Gallifrey haunts his dreams, calls him home with visions of open skies and soaring mountains and libraries of knowledge that he’s already stored in the recesses of his memory.

 _No_ , he says to her. _No, I will not return; my mother is one of your forsaken and my father is no one. I am a son of the stars, and I will live and die as such._

Gallifrey never stops beckoning him home, never stops pleading in his mind for him to come back to her, until the day she does.

*.~.*.~.*

His TARDIS has rearranged herself while they were out; now, the main room sports a wide bay window with a comfortable seat—the perfect place to watch as all of time and space rushes past. Ianto strides in without hesitation, Tosh right behind him, Owen and Gwen following her. The three of them immediately make for the window, still slightly out of breath after their run from the Futurekind, and Ianto watches them with a fond smile, happy that they're already so much at home in the TARDIS.

Outside the window, the Doctor and his companion—the lovely Martha Jones, whom Ianto has yet to have a chance to meet in more than passing—are standing outside the Type 40 TARDIS, clearly arguing about something. They look fond of each other, though, content in their disagreement, and Ianto smiles at that, too.

It’s good to find things to smile about, after learning that he and the Doctor are quite probably the only Time Lords left.

The scuff of a WWII clodhopper pulls Ianto’s attention back to the open doorway. Jack's standing there, looking around with a kind of absent interest.

Something in Ianto’s heart sinks a bit, but he steels himself and reaches for Jack's arm.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “I think we need to talk.”

Jack nods in silent agreement, casting one last glance towards the Doctor and his TARDIS before following Ianto down the hall, through the first door on the right. It’s a library, beautiful and light and airy, holding what is quite likely the last remnant of Gallifrey’s vast collection of literary knowledge. It’s a sad thought, but comforting, in a way. There's a bit of home that's always to be had, something of Gallifrey that he can carry with him, beyond his heritage and dream-memories.

Waving Jack to one of the couches scattered around the room, Ianto keeps walking until he’s right in front of one of the shelves, scanning titles even though he remembers the placement and contents of every single book in the room.

Silence settles between them, awkward in a way Ianto had thought they'd overcome after Lisa, and he can't bring himself to break it.

But Jack can't, either, it seems, and the stillness stretches until Ianto clears his throat sharply and says, in a flat voice, “You're not coming home to Cardiff with us. You're going to stay with him.”

Jack nods slowly, and it’s apologetic. “Yes,” he says, and despite the regret in his tone, his words are firm. “Not forever, and I’ll come back to Cardiff, but I need this, Ianto. I've been waiting for the Doctor for almost two hundred years. This is—I need to make things right between us again.”

Ianto wants to point out that forcing the Doctor to travel with him probably isn’t the best way to deal with a Time Lord’s natural avoidance of fixed points, but keeps his lips sealed firmly shut. He’s got no idea what will come out if he tries to speak, and would rather not humiliate himself right now.

“What about Torchwood?” he asks, when he can finally trust himself to open his mouth again. “Three is all that's left, and with you gone—”

Soft fingers on his face, a big palm cupping his cheek, and Jack's suddenly right in front of him, smiling gently. “Ianto, you're a Time Lord. There's nothing that can come out of the Rift that you and the team won't be able to handle. And the Doctor’s got a TARDIS, too. He can have me back a few hours after I leave.”

Ianto sniffs disdainfully, but leans into the touch. “That old heap of scrap barely counts as a TARDIS anymore,” he says, and he’ll never admit to the slight tremor in his voice. “Especially with the Doctor at the helm.”

Jack's smile is exasperated, if fond, and he chuckles as he leans forward to capture Ianto’s lips in a forceful kiss. It’s all heat and want and humor and affection, and hope rips through Ianto like freefall.

“I'm sorry,” he whispers as they separate. “I'm sorry, I would have told you, but even I didn't know—”

Jack kisses him again, and it’s just as lovely as before, even if Ianto suspects that the main purpose this time is to shut him up. “Enough,” Jack orders warmly. “I get it, Ianto. The Doctor’s got a Chameleon Arch, too, and he explained it to me once.” He ghosts his fingers over Ianto’s ruffled hair, down his cheek and neck, and taps him gently over his right heart. “Ianto,” the Captain murmurs, catching and holding Ianto’s eyes firmly. “Ianto, I'm going to come back. I swear. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Of course I do.” Ianto raises an eyebrow at him. “I grew up with the Doctor, Jack. I've seen the kind of mayhem he drags along in his wake. But if he doesn't bring you back in one piece, I’ll stuff him through a wormhole.”

There’s a long moment of startled silence, and then Jack throws his head back and laughs, bright and loud and sweet. He drags Ianto closer, crushes him against his chest, and holds on tightly, snickering into his hair.

“Oh, Yan,” he whispers, “never, ever change. You're perfect just like this.”

Suddenly, it’s not enough to be standing, pressed together from knees to crown. Ianto wants _more_ , wants _everything_ , and he grasps Jack's arms with something close to desperation.

“One hour,” he demands, making Jack pull back to look at him in confusion. Ianto meets blue eyes, bright under furrowed sandy brows, and repeats, “One hour, Jack, and then I’ll let you go without a word. I’ll even tell the others if you want. Just give us one hour for a proper goodbye.”

Jack grins at him, brilliant and happy. “Ianto, if you think all we’ll need for a _proper_ goodbye is an hour, you don't know me very well at all.”

*.~.*.~.*

Jack stands in front of the Doctor’s TARDIS, watching as a green door set into the air swings shut on his Torchwood team—on his Time Lord, standing so confidently and competently at the controls. Tosh is hovering over his shoulder, watching his every movement, and Owen and Gwen are a few feet further back, arguing over something that's no doubt amusing and insignificant.

But it’s Ianto who holds Jack's attention, even as the door clicks shut and fades from view with a grinding rush. Ianto, who will live for centuries, millennia if he’s careful. Who would probably have forgiven Jack for disappearing on him eventually, even if he hadn’t opened the fob watch. Who came after him, who worried about him, even knowing full well that Jack couldn't die.

Jack can't quite imagine what would have happened without Ianto to stop the Master from opening the watch. He’s glad for that, because he’s seen enough horrors in his life, been given enough information (by Ianto and the Doctor both) about the Master to be able to extrapolate, and it’s grim.

But instead of any of those visions coming true, he’s watching Ianto fly away under his own power, preparing to join the Doctor once more. The memory that he’ll carry with him is of Ianto against wine-red sheets, splayed out over the pillows looking wicked and decadent, murmurs of “sir” and “Captain” falling from his lips like a sinful caress.

And “ _Jack_.”

He’ll never recover from the way Ianto says his name.

He doesn't particularly want to.

Going with the Doctor is something he has to do. It’s necessary, and it’s what Rose would have wanted for them. What she would have _forced_ them to do, a fury in a little blond body, a force even a Time Lord couldn't stand against.

So Jack will travel with him, and he knows he’ll enjoy it, because that's the kind of thing he’s always loved, and the Doctor helped remake him, build him up from a Time Agent and a self-centered con into the man he is today. They’ll travel, and they'll doubtless save worlds full of incredible people, and Jack will adore every hectic, dangerous moment of it.

And then he’ll go back to Cardiff, where his heart waits in a neat three-piece suit, armed with a cup of the divine ambrosia he calls _coffee_ and the rest of them call _blood_.

Jack will travel with the Doctor, be a Companion again for a little while, but then he’ll return to Ianto.

And that…

That will be the best part of the trip.

Jack turns away, one hand curled around the deep red tie stuffed into his pocket, and he’s whistling as he saunters into the TARDIS.

The universe awaits, and after that…

_Home._

*.~.*.~.*

It’s quiet in Cardiff, for once. The Rift monitor hums steadily along, predictable only in its volatility, but quiescent for the moment. Ianto leans back against his desk, rubbing the kinks formed by long hours doing paperwork out of his neck. In that, at least, nothing has changed. Torchwood is still probably the only secret organization in the world that generates enough paperwork to rival the British government on a good day. On the bad days, Ianto sometimes finds himself wondering why they don't just take over the world, for the sole reason that would require far less inane documentation.

Today is, more or less, a good day. A host of intergalactic slavers tried to make Earth their next hunting ground, but dealing with them had been fairly straightforward. Black and white is always fairly easy to see, in cases like that.

With a soft sigh, Ianto straightens from the desk and heads for the kitchen, idly running through a mental inventory of what food they have hidden away in the cupboards and drawers. It’s insane to think about the fact that he did this without a Time Lord’s memory once—without the Archivist’s memory once. It’s far easier to do his job as administrator, general support agent, and part-time field agent when he has access, from memory, to every bit of information Torchwood’s squirreled ever away.

There's still coffee in the carafe, which is a godsend. Ianto doesn't have to sleep nearly as much as a Time Lord as he did when he was human, but Torchwood is still enough to exhaust even him. Before the slavers there were the Macra, another rogue Arcateenian, the Horda, and an invasion of several hundred Voord—all averted, thankfully, but only with the application of a vast amount of working hours.

Ianto remembers Jack's report on Suzie’s first death, how she spoke of Earth attracting only the universe’s trash. But surely, with so many races trying to invade, trying to take Earth as their own, there must be something here worth protecting, worth gaining.

Jack certainly thinks so.

Smiling, Ianto takes a slow sip of coffee, closing his eyes to let the bitterness wash over his tongue. Jack's still with the Doctor, still running for his life in some distant corner of the universe, but it’s all right. Ianto spoke to him just the other day, when he called unexpectedly. There’d been no reason to it, just an intergalactic chat because he was feeling a little nostalgic, a little fond. Ianto remembers the way Jack grinned at him, a little boy off on an adventure, and the way their conversation about nothing in particular had been cut short by the Doctor nearly crashing his TARDIS into a mountain range.

It’s good, life is good right now, and Ianto is content like this.

His TARDIS gives a whispering hum of agreement, and he turns to smile at her, an emerald-green door set into the far wall, where no door has ever been before. She’s happy, too, finally restored from being a half-forgotten dream to the fixture in his life that she’s meant to be. He’s surrendered his apartment, and spends every night here at the Hub, with her.

It’s rather like resuming an old affair now that the husband’s off traveling, he thinks fondly, and she laughs at him.

Ianto tops off his cup, snags a few of Owen’s biscuits—passive-aggressive is the best thing in the _world_ , when Owen’s on the receiving end—and turns to head back to his paperwork, which is apparently capable of asexual reproduction, as the pile’s grown since the last time he looked at it.

He freezes before he can take so much as a step, mug trembling dangerously in his hand.

There’s a small pyramid sitting in the center of the Hub, slate-grey panels and reddish-pink accents—a Type 70 TARDIS, one with which Ianto is intimately familiar. His fingers fly up to the chain around his neck, the small, ornate brass key that rests there, and feels the pulse of warmth in what has, for _years_ , been dead metal.

With a rushing, grinding whoosh, the TARDIS fades from sight, called back to its pilot.

Ianto’s TARDIS sings in his mind, high and eager. Ianto laughs through his shock, wild and delighted, and throws himself at the Rift monitor. He flips it to automatic and calls Tosh.

“Hello?” she answers, voice rough with sleep. “Ianto, what’s wrong?”

“Can you cover the Hub for me?” he asks. “I’ll reroute all the alarms to your comm, you don't even have to come in, but—I’ll be back before you know it, Tosh, there's just something I have to do. Someone I have to find.”

“Of course,” Tosh says instantly, not questioning even though she’s curious, and Ianto loves her for it. “Reroute everything, I’ll be there in a bit. Just be safe, Ianto.”

Ianto laughs, clutching the key to his mother’s TARDIS, and swears, “Of course, Tosh. When am I not?”

There's amusement in her voice as she responds. “I think you’d rather I didn't answer that, Ianto. Just don't take too long, or we’ll have to come looking for you.”

He’s a Time Lord. He’s over a century in age, and very much capable of looking out for himself. Still, it warms something inside of him to know that they’d come after him anyway.

“Of course,” he repeats, and this time it’s a promise.

Tosh signs off, promising to let the others know at a more decent hour, and Ianto spends another moment rerouting all alerts to her. When he turns away, the green door is already standing open, the interior warm and welcoming with its golden wood.

Ianto steps in, feeling _home_ rise up to surround him, and sets his fingers on the controls.

“Ready, my beauty?” he murmurs. “Lock in those last coordinates. Let’s go find the Rani.”

The green door closes with a soft click, and then they're off.


End file.
